


Everything will (not) be Fine

by LeftHand



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, oh look a lot of metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 15:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11405493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/pseuds/LeftHand
Summary: It's cold and Sam has spent far too long in the heat to know how to deal with it. But he's always had a penchant for climbing through the worst of it.





	Everything will (not) be Fine

Since getting out of the Panamanian Prison he’d long since accepted as his final resting place, acclimatising to the new world thus far was the hardest thing Sam had ever had to do. 

The prison had been tough, sure. But Sam’s life had been fraught with nothing but hardship and waking up at all after feeling the punch of bullets to his gut had been both a blessing and a curse. In the weeks following, sick with fever and shock, he’d thought his brother would come for him. 

He never did.

Sam hit a place in his mind that he can still remember with crystal clarity even ten years later. A voice in his head that fractured the hollow silence that had taken up his existence. Living life in a bubble for weeks and weeks. The voice said, “Sam. You lay down and die or you keep going.” And the words were uttered with no accusation or bias. They were honest and simple and plain. As if had Sam chosen the former they would not have judged him for it. 

He did not choose the former.

Because why would he? Every step had always been an uphill battle. This new stage in his life would not prove any differently and if Sam treasured one shared trait between him and his brother it was their combined ability to survive anything the world had to throw at them. So he burst the bubble he’d trapped himself in and started chipping away a place for himself in his new cage. 

So, difficult? Yes, of course. It was a miracle he came out of the other side at all. 

But leaving it? 

Far harder. 

Because suddenly, the routine he’d established for himself--that the prison had established--was gone. There was no pecking order in the world outside of his cage. No one knew his name or traded in cigarettes. And when did his English start sounding stilted? 

For weeks he knew he should celebrate his freedom as a good thing, Shoreline men clapping him on the back and offering him drinks. “God, dude. Couldn’t imagine it. So long in jail, geez. You’re a lucky guy.” And he  _ should _ feel lucky. He should feel great to finally have all that expanse of  _ world _ once again at his feet. 

He didn’t feel lucky.

He felt sick. 

Like the air was stolen from his lungs every time he stepped outside and the beds were too soft and he could still hear drunk guards smacking batons against iron bars when he closed his eyes to sleep. 

And perhaps the worst part of it was that the sound of plastic knocking on metal was far more comforting a sound than the echoing silence of the Adler estate. Then after that the crashing of waves in northern Scotland proved far more soothing a sound than the quiet din of complete emptiness. Sometimes the men on their team looked at him with cold pity in their eyes and Sam  _ hated  _ it. Because he didn’t know how to deal with pity. He knew how to deal with suspicion and hatred but pity was always something his pride could never handle well. 

Pity was condescending and false and since he’d been no older than fifteen the looks of pity people shot him (“Oh his mother died? Poor thing.”) drove (“He got sacked from his third job. He kept slacking off to check on his brother.”) him (“God kid, when’s the last time you got a solid meal down you?”) mad. 

With shaking fingers he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the carton of cigarettes. He was running dangerously low; only two left. A couple of the men owed him a few and he guessed he’d have to start collecting debts. 

He brought the cigarette to his lips and lit up, cupping his hand around the lighter so as to protect the flame from the weak vestiges of wind billowing around the crumbling ruins that made up the outer vestibule of the cathedral. 

Another thing he couldn’t quite handle either was the cold. The bitter cold, the kind that nipped at your skin and pulled at your bones and left you nothing but a quaking mess. The same cold that was causing the cigarette between Sam’s fingers to shake even as he took long drags from it and sunk into the weightless feeling of having something mindless to focus on. His hands smelled like the oil Nadine’s people used to clean their equipment and it reminded him enough of days spent greasing the shoddy chrome on his bike that it calmed the shudders threatening to rise to the surface.

“Those’ll kill you.” A voice mumbled behind him in a tone that lacked its usual airs. 

“Y’know, damn. You’re right.” Sam shot back before taking another long drag. He thought he heard a chuckle but it might have just been a sharp exhale of breath against the chill. Rafe Adler had never looked at him with pity in his eyes but Sam always put it down to the man lacking a sympathetic bone in his body. 

Excavation was going slower than usual. They’d discovered a hidden antechamber the other week and Shoreline seemed to have think they’d finally cracked the code and uncovered what could potentially be a beeline to their prize. Sam knew they were wrong. The architecture of it was too new, at least a hundred years newer than the designs Avery’s men would have left on the place. No, likely this thing was a hidden cellar to store valuables the cathedral’s workers didn’t want in the main chambers. 

As soon as Sam had stepped within the dank hole and traced fingers upon columns and brickwork far too new to be anything they’re interested in the mad spark of hope to Rafe’s expression had faded almost instantaneously. He trusted Sam’s say so, though sometimes begrudgingly. Sam appreciated that, if nothing else. 

“You can have one if you want.” Sam twirled another cigarette between his fingers, holding it out to the man bunched in several layers and looking particularly tired. Occasionally the rich kid would have days where his hair fell out from it's usual gelled hold and his temper was shorter than he was. Some days he was charismatic and willful and  _ dangerous _ . And others he would take the proffered cigarette from Sam’s hand and stand next to him quietly and remind Sam of the fresh prisoners that would sometimes arrive at Panama, cheeks hollow and eyes devoid of much optimism. 

He took the cigarette between similarly shaking fingers. 

“That’s my last one, so treat it right.”  

Rafe mumbled something Sam assumed to be snide under his breath. Might have also been an affirmation but after a whole year spent in Rafe’s company he’d like to think he knew him better than that. 

Rafe sniffed as Sam brought up his lighter but leaned the cigarette between his lips into the flame nonetheless. He took a deep inhale and made a face, plucking the thing from his mouth and holding it between two fingers with all the deftness of somebody that didn’t smoke.    
“My father loved Scotland.” 

Sam almost choked. Rafe glared at him from above the scarf he’d pulled over his chin. Sam quickly disguised it as a cough, patting his chest and raising his brows. As if the notion of Rafe telling him  _ anything _ about himself wasn’t enough to stop his lungs working. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed, waving the cigarette in his hand about, “Damn things.” 

Rafe didn’t believe him but was evidently placated enough to continue, taking another short drag of his own and turning to face out of the crumbling walls of the vestibule where the first beginnings of snow were starting to line the ground white. “My father used to take business trips to Edinburgh all the time. As a child I thought it was part of his job. Looking back at it, I understand now it’s because he enjoyed it.” 

Sam squinted at the shorter man and opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it and shutting it, opting instead to follow the line of Rafe’s eyes out to the sea, where the sky was painted an unearthly white to match the soft flakes in the air.

After just two puffs of the cigarette Rafe was stubbing it out angrily on the stones. Sam should be indignant but he just watched. 

“I hate this place. I hate the cold.” 

For the first time in a year Sam was beginning to think Rafe Adler might possess some humanity after all. He’d always known Rafe held nothing sacred, not really, not past his own possessions or what he deemed to be his. And hell if he already knew the kid had daddy issues. But the way his fingers shook like Sam’s did around a cigarette…

He shook his head.

“When you’re not used to it it feels colder than it actually is.” 

Rafe had turned away from him, as if to move inside but Sam’s words caught him and held him in place. Feeling bold, Sam continued, “And all the bad things and all the hurt and the way people can fuck you over? Same sorta thing. If you’re not used to it it’s gonna suck worse.” 

Rafe’s eyes looked torn between anger and denial. “What are you implying, Samuel?” 

Sam took the final drag from his cigarette before stamping it out underfoot. He shot Rafe a grin and shrugged out of his jacket, handing it to the man who took it but seemingly out of reflex. Like if he’d been given a second to consider it he wouldn’t have taken it at all. “That maybe you need a warmer coat.” He shrugged. “That’s all.” 

Left in a long sleeved shirt, he turned back out to the thickening snow. “If it keeps up like this Nadine’s gonna have to bring the men in.” 

Rafe didn’t reply and Sam didn’t expect him to. 

Sam also didn’t expect Rafe to disappear with his jacket and not return it. 

He didn’t expect to find Rafe the next day wearing it atop all his other ridiculous layers and bundled up scarf and shoot Sam a look that said, ‘If you speak a word of this to anyone I’m going to make the Cathedral a No-Smoking zone.’ 

He didn’t expect Rafe to start joining him silently outside for a cigarette every few days and he didn’t expect a folded gift outside his tent one day. A coat, similar to the one he’d given Rafe, just a brand new version. Not the same one. 

He expected a note with it perhaps, but nothing. 

He breathed in the cold northern air and exhaled it in a puff of mist. The snow was only going to get worse in the next few days. Excavation would be called off for a month and Rafe would formally ask him if he’d return with him to his estate. 

The man had eyes colder than Scotland could ever get and a temper to match.

He brought the fabric to his nose before pulling it on and tucking his carton of cigarettes into the pocket. 

The snow continued to fall.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Tsol](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorQui/pseuds/DoctorQui) for being a good beta and letting me drag her into this hell.  
> Also heads up to [Mango](http://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolentmango/pseuds/malevolentmango). She's a sweet-ish kinda person.


End file.
